Her Eyes, Like Mine

she walks around Willytowne
thinking two things:
one, she forgot to shave her armpits,
and two, the music in her ears is perfect.

some melodramatic dancy indy shit
with a girl-guy lead singer,
and she is too close to the subway
and just the right amount of tipsy to care about the other thing.

she thinks about getting a styrofoam to-go
from the Turkey's Nest,
but shimmy's on by, her eyes playing tricks on hers,
just like they do mine.

she cries out, in a good-bad way,
as she descends and misses the L train,
no matter because the chatter has her,
and she spins like no one is in her way.

no more snow,
nothing slowing her down,
aside from a vision in Union Square,
she sees something there.

she hopes her cellphone
battery lasts her all night,
but then she remembers its probably best
that it dies before she gets too drunk.